


Crossed Lines

by SilusLocke, x57



Series: Echoes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Age Reversal, M/M, Mycroft has sadistic tendencies, Sadism, accident in a science lab, he's also 11, holmescest, prior Jim Moriarty/Mycroft Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilusLocke/pseuds/SilusLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/x57/pseuds/x57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is de-aged in an accident at a top secret research facility. Early on, he had rather sadistic tendencies that he learned to repress over time. Now they've come through full force and Sherlock is the only one available to help mitigate the cravings.</p><p>Note: This is a timestamp that diverges from our fic Echoes. You do not have to read Echoes to pick up this story, as the summary contains the gist of what's happened so far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossed Lines

Mycroft found himself on the third floor in the space of a few seconds, heading for the guest room where he’d put Sherlock and his flatmate, chest heaving and short legs sore from trying to take the stairs two at a time with his small frame. He was unable to stop trembling by the time he reached the door. 

"Sher-" Mycroft's soft voice cut off as he remembered that John would be in there with him.  
Some shuffling came from within the room before the door opened to reveal a tired looking, bed-haired Sherlock. He looked like he'd been tossing and turning, and fortunately for Mycroft, he probably hadn't even gotten to sleep. John was still on the bed behind him, deeply unconscious.

Sherlock followed the Mycroft’s gaze. "Trick of the military: sleep when you can, wherever you can." He looked somewhat envious before he turned back to the boy, eyes growing serious. "Mycroft, what is it?"

Mycroft's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He knew what was needed, but it felt... wrong, somehow, to voice it. "It wasn't enough. I'm trying, but it wasn't enough." His gaze drifted to John's still form behind Sherlock. He noted with a certain amount of detached horror that a part of himself was sizing up the doctor and weighing the possibilities. Mycroft forced himself to look back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's gaze narrowed and he moved into the hall, closing the door behind himself. He'd caught the look on Mycroft’s face and read it exactly for what it was. He drew the robe, one of Mycroft's finer silk ones, around himself tightly before trying to investigate the boy further with his gaze alone, but getting nothing more than desperate need, an edge of despair. "Did something happen?" he asked, deep voice dropping as quiet as it could.

"J-...Moriarty showed up outside. Briefly. Just long enough for him to know I'd see him, too quick for me to do anything about it." Jim wouldn't be able to breach the house perimeter without a good deal of time and work, more than enough for Mycroft to counterattack and escape, but seeing the criminal right outside had unraveled the last of his pretense at calm composure. He felt wound tight, the only choices left being to find release or let himself completely break.

At first, Sherlock's instincts overrode what Mycroft was asking of him. Moriarty had been right there, but as Sherlock grit his teeth and started for the stairwell, he was blocked by Mycroft’s small form. He understood then, at the look on Mycroft's face, that the boy had already given up on going after the criminal. He needed something from his brother instead.

Sherlock’s lips parted. "It's gotten that bad?"

Mycroft licked his lips. Doubt filtered into the back of his mind. It was foolish to ask this, even of his brother. "I can't think about anything else, right now." The small escape tunnel beneath the house was a sore temptation. Mycroft knew he could slip away from the house undetected, but everything that followed would be less certain. Moriarty would have people watching for him, and someone would get hurt. Perhaps himself, given his newly childlike body wasn't in a state to have the time and resources required to get what he needed.

That in itself was a measure of how far the cracks in his composure had spread. His concern was no longer even a detached acknowledgement that another human being would unjustly suffer, but that the danger of getting caught was unacceptably large.

"Ok," Sherlock nodded once, growing anxious at the way Mycroft was withdrawing. "Downstairs, then." They needed to be far away from John and somewhere they could easily clean up. He ushered the boy ahead of him and they descended the stairs rapidly. The tension in Mycroft's whole frame was evident. The way his shoulders tightened and bunched were indicative of the thoughts running through his head, as if wound with energy, readying for an attack.

"Give me a second," Mycroft mumbled as they reached the second floor. He disappeared around the corner, returning a minute later with a small bundle of medical supplies. It said something that his facade was slipping enough that Sherlock could plainly read tinges of guilt on his brother's face. "Down to the kitchen. It's... easier to clean up," he offered by way of explanation, still not quite looking at Sherlock. If Mycroft was perfectly honest with himself, he was afraid - afraid of hurting his brother, and afraid to look up and see signs of rejection from Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded with a brave expression. Mycroft's uncertainty worried him a little. It would be easier for the boy to slip up if he wasn't focused, but Sherlock reminded himself that he could do this, and would do this, no matter the risk.

He followed Mycroft down to the lower level where the kitchen remained just as they had left it earlier. There was a stillness to the air now, one that had not been there before, and Sherlock looked around the room with a different gaze. A block of knives beside the sink drew his eye. The cord in the pull out faucet did so as well, along with a dozen or more other items standing within arm’s reach on the countertops.

He moved to the center island and turned, facing Mycroft, then lowered himself to a stool. He closed his eyes briefly, taking a breath of air, and then opened them.

"I'm ready."

Mycroft set his bundle of supplies against the countertop. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, visibly warring with himself as the last of his facade unraveled. The boy was having less of a problem with the idea of his possible actions, and more with the recipient of the same. Sherlock was his - his responsibility, his brother, nearly his child, even if physically that relationship was now reversed.

But Sherlock was, short of Jim or Sebastian, the only one who was currently acceptable to hurt. He'd understood. He'd agreed, knowing what it meant.

Mycroft still didn't like the way Sherlock's eyes followed him as he gathered the rest of what he'd need. One of the crisp linen dishtowels was turned into a makeshift gag and tied in place. Two knives were set on the countertop, and a length of nylon cord. A spatula and two wooden spoons were added to the pile, along with a bowl of ice from the freezer.

Mycroft placed himself in front of Sherlock, cradling his brother's face in his hands for a rare moment, only just tall enough to do so, and looking at him without layers of shields obscuring his view. The hunger present beneath his sorrow won out, as Mycroft knew it would. Tugging Sherlock’s borrowed robe off and discarding it on the floor, he leaned in and renewed the mark he'd left on Sherlock's shoulder earlier that day, shivering at the sound Sherlock made around the gag. His hand closed around one of the wooden spoons and his focus sharpened as he pulled back.

The first blow left a delicate pink imprint against Sherlock's pale skin.

Sherlock flinched, but he stayed where he was, and he looked alright. He'd been a little more comfortable with Mycroft's teeth during their previous session, even if it did technically hurt more than the spoon coming down across his chest. The boy couldn't put a lot of weight into it, but the speed of his strokes made up for the loss of strength. Knowing his brother would move on, Sherlock let himself wince a little.

The point was, after all, to allow Mycroft to see him and everything he was feeling just as much as it was for the boy to inflict it. His hands tightened into fists, body instinctually tensing whenever he expected a hit.

Mycroft was being affected on more than one level. He gritted his teeth every time he drew back to deliver another stroke, but the darkness creeping into his gaze and his rapid breathing were only partially from adrenaline. The boy seemed to forget who he was hitting for a time, painting crisscross patterns across Sherlock's torso until his skin was flushed red from the abuse.

Mycroft finally stepped back, his tongue darting across his lips as he gauged the damage. He shook his head and dropped the spoon, untied Sherlock’s gag, and then began removing his own shirt. "On the floor."

Sherlock's eyes were heavy with pain. Every breath hurt him, but he gingerly stood, sliding the stool back and bent down on one knee and then the other. He stretched out on his back obediently, glancing down at his own reddened chest where he was lightly bleeding in places from small scratches, before his eyes were drawn away by Mycroft. Sherlock watched curiously as Mycroft’s shirt fell to the floor. His gaze travelled up to the boy's pale chest, bare and marked with bruises and bites in contrast to the angry red patterns traced across his own skin.

Mycroft was entranced. Leaving marks on Sherlock was soothing in its own way, as was the exertion, but it was Sherlock's expressions and twinges that completed it. He drew a deep breath, selected one of the knives, and settled himself astride Sherlock's waist. Practicality had won out over propriety - they were already breaking a number of social rules by even doing this. Mycroft reasoned that Sherlock would agree with his choice to sit however was necessary to keep maximum control over the depth and angle of the blade.

Mycroft licked his lips again and carefully lowered the knife to skin. The nicks left behind were thin, just enough to sting and draw blood. Mycroft's shoulders were tight with tension, ready to jerk the knife back if Sherlock had an unexpected reaction that put him in danger of a more deadly wound. After a few moments he drew the flat of the blade against the cuts, lifting it up so Sherlock could see the reddish stain.

Sherlock had been cringing, but the movement caught his attention. When his gaze refocused and landed on the blade, everything about him stilled. Even his jaw went slack as he stared, pain nearly forgotten. A slice of his own reflection stared back at him, half obscured by a thin smudge of blood. He drew a deep breath, glanced down to his chest and then back up to the blade as though taken by surprise. He swallowed.

"Mycroft… I don't know if I ever told you…" Sherlock’s breathing deepened and he reached out for the boy's arm, drawing the knife closer to himself. He licked his lips, somewhat uncertainly. "I have a certain…fascination, with…" The blade was close enough now, and Sherlock was still a little hesitant, but transfixed on the smear of red. His tongue darted out over the flat of it, stomach going a bit tight at Mycroft watching.

Mycroft's darkened eyes watched in fascination. He'd had some suspicions about it over the years, but never had Sherlock confirm it. His breath left him in a sigh as he let Sherlock taste the blade, and his brother looked up.

Mycroft couldn't have said what possessed him to drag his fingertips along the cuts. He raised two crimson digits, something clenching deep inside him as they garnered Sherlock's attention. He recognized that kind of hunger.

Sherlock's pupils instantly dilated, staring at the red, wet fingers. He swallowed. The fixation wasn't normally this strong in him. Normally he dealt with blood and flesh in crime scenes and lab slides, and while he derived more than a certain amount of fascination with it than was considered normal in those environments, having something so beautiful and tantalizing on display for him in a different setting captured his attention more than he had anticipated. This environment was contrived for pleasure - Mycroft's, specifically, but that wasn't the point.

The beauty of bright red over pale porcelain fingertips called to Sherlock. He took hold of his brother's wrist, secondarily fascinated at how small it was, and how he could never remember it being this small, and turned Mycroft’s hand this way and that, examining the blood and marveling at its color. He feared it would dry soon, and so he took his chance while he could, carefully, delicately sliding his tongue up Mycroft's index finger and smearing the blood across it. He looked at the path he'd made before taking it into his mouth, then doing the same with the second, and third.

Mycroft froze, lips parted in surprise. He'd merely intended to use the blood as a prop, one more thing to trigger a visceral reaction in Sherlock. What he hadn't quite expected was that Sherlock would respond by sucking his fingers clean, one at a time.

Moreover, the experience shouldn't have been as pleasant as it was. Something about the taboo feeling to the entire encounter amplified the sensation. Mycroft was exquisitely aware of the slide of each finger against Sherlock's tongue and the wetness as he was released.

A greater horror was the realization, as Sherlock's darkened gaze fixed on him, that he'd suddenly gone hard. Mycroft stared back, trapped, unable to think of what to do or how to explain away what his brother must have already felt.

A faint splash of red tinged Sherlock's cheeks in return. Ice grey eyes darted to the side past Mycroft's head, avoiding the boy's gaze, and Sherlock's body squirmed uncomfortably. It was just a tiny movement, but telling, and when Mycroft leaned back, ever so slightly, he noticed that Sherlock was having a similar problem. From the blood alone and Mycroft bent over him, offering tastes and teases, the man was half hard.

Sherlock's cheeks grew redder and, obstinately, he huffed a small sigh, staring even further off to the side. "This is…unexpected.”

"This is the... only occasion I can recall where... you erred on the side of understatement." 

Mycroft closed his eyes. Both he and Sherlock had already been venturing into dangerous territory in attempting to sate his more sadistic hunger, but... he didn't know if he could drag Sherlock into this _new_ hunger as well as the old. His brother had always shied away from experimenting with sexuality, and unless Mycroft was mistaken, that still held true. John Watson projected depth of emotion and longing toward Sherlock in a way that could only indicate that he had either not confessed or was unrequited, and Sherlock's oblivious behavior suggested the former. 

Sex and the related emotions and behaviors were still Sherlock's blind spot from lack of experience and, perhaps, fear, and societal norms dictated that Mycroft was not, _should not_ be considered as a partner for addressing that inexperience. Sherlock wasn't merely his brother; given their childhood years together and all the caretaking he had done, Sherlock was nearly his child.

A child now in a grown and very interested body, staring back at his older brother turned young again. Mycroft's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He was afraid to speak, afraid to move from his position atop a half naked Sherlock... because he didn't _want_ to move away. Not after the way Sherlock had looked at him. He'd had Jim and Sebastian's companionship only yesterday, but with the return of Mycroft’s memories, everything felt more distant. It seemed like it had been decades since he'd been touched with affection, much less passion.

Sherlock's pale eyes dared a glance in his direction, only to dart away a second later, this time making a retreat for the ceiling. The long arch of Sherlock's neck bobbed as he took a quick gasp of air, so obviously out of his element that every miniature expression of body language was like a plea for solid ground to stand on. Yet his cheeks remained red and his body remained flush, half of it bared to Mycroft already, and that spoke volumes.

As did Sherlock's lack of immediate response. Or refusal. 

"Uhm," was the only sound he uttered, and even that was shaky, yet his eyes glanced back down to Mycroft, sitting there on his stomach with bloodied fingers and the remnants of a twisted smile. As unfamiliar as he was in a child’s body and with such an expression directed at Sherlock...he was also every bit as familiar. 

Sherlock licked his lips. 

Mycroft had been there since the beginning of things. Mycroft, for better or for worse, knew Sherlock better than anyone. And now...Sherlock had found out a few secrets of his brother’s in return. Sherlock's eyes stayed fixed on Mycroft’s this time, and then…they glanced back to his bloodied fingertips. 

Both of them teetered on the brink for a few more seconds, silently waiting for the other to signal refusal, some sort of rejection. 

When Sherlock didn't withdraw from him, Mycroft braced himself and made a choice he hadn't considered before.

Small fingers trailed through blood welling to the surface of Sherlock’s chest, then lifted them, but this time he didn't hold them out for Sherlock. Their eyes locked while he turned his own lips crimson, then licked his fingers clean. The invitation was unspoken, but there all the same.

Where Sherlock's gaze had darted reflexively away before, it was fixed now. His mouth fell open, lips - lush and full lips - preparing to form a word that never came. They died on his tongue before Sherlock ever got the chance to funnel them out of the maelstrom in his head because he knew with absolute certainty that if he were to break the moment now, it would be gone forever. 

He and Mycroft had been men of words, when Mycroft _was_ a man, and if Sherlock reminded them of this now, it would force them back into their former roles. Mycroft was opening a new door for him, and Sherlock, when reasonably secure, had never been able to curb his curiosity. 

Mycroft's small lips were _gleaming_ red. 

Without another moment's hesitation, Sherlock leaned up, aiming to catch Mycroft's mouth. He didn't think to pull the boy down. He didn't think to put his hands in the limp curls of Mycroft's hair. Even that would be too daring. But their lips met anyway, and Sherlock thought that maybe he should have his eyes closed, but he couldn't. Mycroft was _so close_ , and _so strange_ in this form from their childhood, yet Sherlock wouldn't let himself stop. 

Sherlock wasn't either of the two men Mycroft had known with this body, and yet... this was still familiar. Sherlock was hesitant and painfully inexperienced, unwilling to press too far. But still, after one last flicker of hesitation, he'd accepted this much. Warm lips pressed to Mycroft's and his own eyes stared back at him. They were different people, Sherlock and himself, but they were both Holmeses, and there was no one Mycroft trusted more at the moment.

Sherlock was tempted enough to try to taste of the blood coating Mycroft's lips, and the boy surprised him by tasting back. When Sherlock retreated an inch in surprise, Mycroft captured one of his hands and lifted it until Sherlock was cupping the back of his head. He could only hope that his brother wouldn't panic and shut down, that his curiosity overruled his shyness and inexperience. "...it's alright."

Sherlock went absolutely still. For a moment it seemed like there might be something wrong, the way he just froze up with his fingers clutched and every muscle in his body tense, but then he took a shaky breath of air and, when Mycroft sat back just a little, he could feel the length in Sherlock's trousers pressing harder than before. 

"You've..." Sherlock's voice cut out almost as soon as its deep rumble began. 'You've done this before,' was the question he'd been on the verge of asking, but Mycroft already answered it the moment their eyes met. 

_Yes._ Obviously. 

With that in mind, Sherlock's fingers drew together in the curls at the back of Mycroft's neck and experimentally pulled him down. It was less painful, Mycroft was almost weightless and Sherlock didn't have to lift his torso and disturb the gashes Mycroft had left behind. Except for the ones Mycroft pressed against. Sherlock winced when they kissed again, not having the focus required to hide it. 

That small tick was enough to spark Mycroft's hunger even more. It took a concerted effort not to bite at Sherlock's mouth and impatiently press forward. An equal effort not to examine what he was doing too closely and recall that the man he was kissing was the same as the child who used to sit in his lap while Mycroft read to him. His own hands cupped Sherlock's face in encouragement. This would have to be slow, for both their sakes.

 _Sherlock's first._ The thought hit Mycroft like a jolt of electricity. He'd teased his brother often enough about his reluctance. Mycroft wondered what it said about him that the idea, while it gave him pause, only added another layer of appeal.

Sherlock made a soft sound. Mycroft was getting a better reaction when he helped guide Sherlock, letting the younger, now older, man know which way he was going to move. Sherlock still hadn't completely closed his eyes, but that was understandable. For him that would defeat the purpose. This was meant to be seen as much as felt, to be taken in with every one of his senses. After all, who knew if he would ever attempt such a thing with someone else. 

Their kiss grew deeper. When Sherlock licked the remaining traces of blood, still focused on it as the one thing he knew was his element, a safety, Mycroft licked back slowly into Sherlock's mouth. Eventually, Sherlock grew daring enough to meet the advance, opening his mouth and tongue to Mycroft in return.

Mycroft had always felt at odds with society, and this was just one more mark against him. When Sherlock's lips parted to let him in... it was lovely. More than lovely. Adding a physical component to the connection they'd always had was still bizarre, still pulled at his emotions, but wasn't as odd as it could have been. Mycroft imagined the closeness they'd had before, not only being able to speak to one another without words, but wanting to, and tried to imagine what that sort of communication would look like through touch. He felt himself stiffen even further where he was pressed against Sherlock's torso.

Mycroft's tongue darted forward and began slowly exploring. When Sherlock didn't flinch or pull back, he used his knees to push himself backwards slightly. Just enough to feel heated pressure still trapped by fabric, pressing against his backside.

Sherlock froze, caught off guard, and drew a hiss of breath through his nose before he calmed again. It wasn't that it was Mycroft doing this to him that gave him pause, it was the unexpected sensation. Not that Sherlock had never been shy in exploring his _own_ body when he'd been curious to see what it would and would not do, but another person sending that shock of pressure through him was entirely different. He hadn't expected it, even though he should have. 

By the time he'd collected himself, Mycroft was watching him with knowing eyes. He'd seen Sherlock's thoughts get processed one after another until Sherlock himself finally caught up. When Sherlock did at last, he let his hands fall on Mycroft's hips, so large in comparison, and after a brief pause tentatively ground his own hips up against the small body atop him.

Mycroft's eyes clouded. He remembered this, both as he was now and before, as a young teen. Before it had all gone wrong. His bloodlust receded in favor of another need, which he'd buried just as deeply in his play at being a living automaton throughout much of his life. 

Mycroft licked his lips and glanced at Sherlock in question. Silence hung heavy between them, but he had to be certain. "...alright?"

Sherlock seemed surprised, not by the question, but that Mycroft had spoken at all and he was expected to give an answer. "Yes. Yes, I think so," was all he could mumble. He stilled, but his hands didn't move from Mycroft's hips. This was all very, very strange and yet Sherlock could not deny that he was interested. He'd never considered his brother like this before. But then, there was also Mycroft's current situation to be taken into account – he wasn’t a man anymore. Sherlock swallowed roughly. "You?"

Mycroft wasn't certain, but he wasn't going to voice as much. He had no intention of truly harming his brother, whether than meant grievous bodily harm or something more subtle, something that lingered and festered in the back of Sherlock’s mind. He had to remind himself that his brother was no longer a child. Sherlock could make his own choices. "So long as we're slow, and careful. Given..." Sherlock's inexperience. His own physical limitations, and scarring from old memories. "...we shouldn't stay in the kitchen. I have a bed in the panic room."

Sherlock's face went red. This was about to become very real. More real than if they had remained on the tile floor in the space where this all started. He once again had to ask himself whether he wanted it at all. It had been impulse at first, taking Mycroft’s bloodied fingers into his mouth, but now there was intention. He tried to anticipate what would come, his own reactions, and whether or not it was all worth it in the end. But there was Mycroft, pulling back slightly to indicate they should move, with traces of ruddy color smeared around his mouth and jaw and Sherlock felt his body react to it. It was something he so rarely felt in the presence of another person and he knew then he would not let this opportunity go. 

Nodding finally, Sherlock got an arm behind him and, with a certain amount of pain, drew himself up from the floor. He didn't want to stand perfectly straight with the wounds on his chest, but still he towered over Mycroft. 

Mycroft had to lean back slightly to look all the way up, and a fond smile touched his stained mouth. He hadn't missed his brother's flinching, or the hesitation that had come from uncertainty. If they were going to do this, they were going into it _together_. "Grab the med kit on the counter. Let's clean you up and get you more comfortable first." Mycroft was certain he wouldn't mind dealing with a lover in pain or the blood spatters on the bed, but... this was _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock nodded again and did as asked. If he understood the sentiment behind Mycroft's concern, he didn't acknowledge it. He did, however, grow gradually more certain about what they were about to do as the seconds ticked by. 

 

Mycroft opened the door to the panic room and Sherlock followed. There would be no chance of them waking John in here, and if by some miracle they did manage it, he would not be able to unbolt the door. Sherlock inspected it as he stepped through. It looked solid enough, with a monitor of the kitchen and call button installed beside it and sound deadening walls, but he needed to be sure. "Soundproof?" Sherlock asked as he set the kit down on a small table. It made little sense to sit anywhere but the bed, so that's what Sherlock did, if gingerly. 

"Soundproof," Mycroft confirmed once the door closed. He'd already opened the kit and doused a pad of gauze with alcohol. Sherlock hissed when it touched his skin, which only sent a spike of pleasure lancing through Mycroft. He worked quickly; every moment that passed was a moment when both of them might come to their senses.

When Sherlock's skin was clean, a few plasters took care of the shallow nicks Mycroft had left with the knife earlier.

The subdued blue glow from the room’s monitors cast an eerie light on both brothers.

Mycroft slid into the space between Sherlock's legs and cupped his face. With Sherlock sitting, they were nearly eye-to-eye. Mycroft leaned in to kiss him again, trying to draw out the passion that had started to recede.

Sherlock was a little stiff, but he let himself be coaxed into it. Certainly, he would not have initiated it himself. He was a little surprised that Mycroft found it so easy. Still, when Mycroft pressed forward, mouth so soft against Sherlock’s, Sherlock began to stiffen again in another manner. His hands came up to rest at Mycroft's narrow hips, and Sherlock wondered why he was not wondering what it would be like to kiss his brother in the form he'd known him in for the past several decades. Instead, Sherlock was perfectly comfortable to kiss him as a young boy. Perhaps therein lay the answer. Mycroft like this reminded him of a different time, and of no time at all. Sherlock would have been only five back then. Slowly, the more Sherlock took Mycroft in as he was now, the more Sherlock began to relax, even press back into the kiss, steadily wanting more. 

Sherlock, in return, was safe. 

If Mycroft went back to Jim, the criminal mastermind might just imprison him for his own use, or kill him by testing compounds on him in hopes of forcing his mind to match his body and bring back what they’d had. Sherlock... had proven that he'd give of himself to keep Mycroft whole, whether that meant refusing to turn him in or trying to help sate his unusual tastes. This was just one more thing, one more need reawoken by Moriarty - a need for physical affection and sensuality. And apparently a kink for the disparity that was involved with his current body.

Jim was going to pay, at some point.

For now, Mycroft pushed against Sherlock's chest until his brother slowly laid down. Small hands drifted to the fastening of his trousers. Mycroft could feel his own heartbeat, hear it thudding in his ears. This seemed worse, somehow, than cutting into Sherlock with a knife. He felt more nervous, certainly.

It was becoming obvious that Sherlock's impatience was overruling his insecurities. He laid there calmly and didn't touch Mycroft, but his hips shifted underneath the boy's hands, eager for what he anticipated. He glanced down the bandaged expanse of his bare chest to catch sight of Mycroft, bent over him with dusty red curls falling in his face, intent on his task. 

The button popped free. Sherlock could feel small fingers brush against him, and a moan escaped his lips unexpectedly, but he let it out and the sound echoed in tandem with the zipper sliding down. 

An uneasy smile touched Mycroft's lips. He wasn't used to hearing his brother's voice make that sound, but it was strangely... pleasant. Particularly when he slid his hand over Sherlock's tented boxers and heard it again. One tug on Sherlock's trousers and he was quick to lift his hips off the bed to let the garment slide down. Mycroft's sense of victory was short-lived, however - Sherlock's hands were gripping the side of the bed. "...you can touch me, you know," he murmured with a slight undertone of hurt.

For once, Sherlock was too off guard to get defensive. He lifted his head and blinked before reaching out to place one hand at the back of Mycroft's neck like Mycroft had positioned it before. The other tentatively skimmed over a small shoulder blade. Sherlock was not used to touching other people, and even less so to give them pleasure, but when Mycroft's fingers loosely stretched over the hardness in his boxers, Sherlock's fingers curled against his brother’s soft skin. He caught himself before he gripped too tight and wound up with a firm, steady hold on Mycroft. Sherlock exhaled slowly, finding himself again, and enough confidence to arch a brow at his brother. "What are you going to do?"

"That depends entirely on what you're willing to do. I know you're still inexperienced." Mycroft shot him a significant look. His hand didn't pause, softly gliding back and forth in a calculated tease. "What I need to know is how far your innocence extends. Whether you've purposefully made yourself blind and deaf to certain things or erased data you preferred not knowing."

Sherlock's jaw set in something that, on a child's face, would have definitely been a pout. "I've done no such thing. Although I haven't often entertained the idea of such research for personal benefit,” he caught his breath. “It would have been serious neglect on my part to ignore the variety of sexual acts that exist in the world for the benefit of my work." He cut off the last consonant with a harsh click, something that may have seemed defensive to most ears, but there was no heat in it. It was only a statement and the answer to Mycroft's question. Mycroft's hand was still sending shivers all the way down Sherlock's spine even if he made a valiant effort to remain unmoved. "As for what I'm willing to do...," Sherlock began again, this time with more hesitance, "I...would like to consider this an opportunity to learn...everything I can. Whatever that may be, given our current limitations." Sherlock was referring to the state of Mycroft's body, there was no doubt of it. Objectively, considering his work, he knew what a person of Mycroft's size could handle during intercourse, but only in terms of physical damage to the body. Sherlock did not know at what point Mycroft's pleasure would turn into pain. 

Mycroft's gaze dropped to watch the way Sherlock's breathing caught whenever he touched him in _just_ the right way. Knowing that people engaged in a particular number of activities with a selection of side options was... something, but not the same as being well-versed in what the mechanics entailed, or having observational experience. "I don't have much in the way of current limitations," Mycroft replied softly. Color tinged his cheeks when he felt Sherlock's gaze sharpen. "So long as care and time are taken, there's no detriment."

It was Sherlock who again took on the tone of impartial observer, but Mycroft had not mistaken the spark of curious scrutiny. "None? I'd observed as much in case research before, at times, but there comes a point when it's impossible to tell on video whether a facial tick, a smile, sounds of encouragement in the subject are forced for the camera or if they are genuine," Sherlock seemed for a moment annoyed with his own observational limitations, and he was getting distracted with work. "I've never had the chance to interview a subject. Not with the Met and Lestrade's lackeys on every such case." 

In spite of Sherlock's serious lack of tact, Mycroft's childlike body and his encounter with Moriarty reminding him of criminal case research, he seemed genuinely interested in the logistics if not the moral connotations of their current undertaking. "Just how far would you be willing to...indulge me, as it were?"

"I've done this enough times in my current state to have a good measure of what limitations there are." Mycroft grimaced for a moment. Pushing past those limits could inflict serious damage, but Sherlock wasn't the type to test pain boundaries in that way. At least, not so far as he was aware. "With some preparation and time taken in the beginning, it won't be painful for me. The opposite, in fact. If you're... willing, I am interested, so long as you listen if I tell you that something's amiss."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed with interest. "Then I'm willing. Very willing," he added when Mycroft's hand started its leisurely palming motion again. He couldn't stop shifting into the pressure of the light touch, and his long fingers brushed over Mycroft's shoulders and back, instinctively trying to coax his brother into continuing. Sherlock probably wasn't even aware that the hesitant motion of his own hands over Mycroft’s delicate frame had changed into something a little more human. 

Contrarily, Mycroft's nerves had started up again. He knew there was no reason to be afraid of his brother, particularly now that they'd both agreed... but part of him still wondered whether Sherlock would only get so far before rejecting him. Now, and in more mundane interactions in the future. 

His small fingers curled around the edge of Sherlock's boxers, and another small tug cued Sherlock to raise his hips again. Soft cotton retreated and revealed a measure of interest Sherlock couldn't fake. Mycroft paused for a second, then wrapped a hand around the newly exposed flesh. A smile touched his lips again when he heard Sherlock gasp. He took a deep breath, then leaned down to take Sherlock entirely by surprise, drawing his tongue across the tip of his cock.

"Augh!" Sherlock shouted and gasped. His hips jerked but he caught them a split second later, realizing right away that it wouldn't do to displace Mycroft. His hands even latched onto the boy’s shoulders, intent on keeping him right where he was. Sherlock restrained himself just enough not to press Mycroft any farther. He was staring openly now at the scene unraveling between his legs. When Mycroft was focused on his task, he was _focused_ , head bent and small, pink tongue curved over Sherlock's comparatively large length. Sherlock had never seen himself like that before, standing hard and erect with a tongue lapping over... He gasped when Mycroft did it again, and he couldn't be sure exactly what was making him harder, the sight or the feel of it. "Yes, more of that."

Mycroft glanced up through tangled curls. He must have liked what he saw; a sly grin spread across his face, of the sort Sherlock had only seen a few times before in his life. Before Mycroft had done his best to pretend to be emotionally dead to the world. "I'm going to be expecting you to take care of me too, you know." He didn't want for Sherlock's reply. His tongue laved over soft skin while he observed Sherlock's responses. After a few more seconds, he opened his mouth wider and his lips closed around the head.

Words failed Sherlock. He could not have cared less right then, not with such exquisite warmth over that _very_ sensitive point. If Mycroft asked Sherlock to touch him, he would. Without hesitation. Just to prolong this feeling. He strained not to push more into Mycroft's mouth, noting with some detached part of his higher functioning brain, which had decided to sit back and merely document the proceedings, that Mycroft's mouth was going to be straining soon. It was so small. And by contrast, the reptilian part of Sherlock's brain responded very favorably to that sight. He groaned again, but this time it was a low rumble, reverberating through his chest. He'd never thought of his brother like that before, but now, if he wanted to, Sherlock could _easily_ overpower him. The part of his higher consciousness that had taken itself out of the picture sat up and took note of that peculiar instinct, and like a dance the two sides of Sherlock's brain circled one another. Sherlock's fingertips meanwhile scratched lightly down the dip between Mycroft's shoulder blades, impatient for more. 

Mycroft released him and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. From the way Sherlock looked at him, he'd succeeded in his objective. Curiosity and lust were a combination that wouldn't let Sherlock back down without seeing where this road led. 

More interesting still was the sharp look in his brother's eye. Sherlock could be stubborn, even sneakily malicious, but Mycroft had never seen him look predatory since he'd gotten clean. Mycroft glanced down at the remainder of his own clothing and raised an eyebrow at his brother. 

It didn't take more than that to spur Sherlock to action.

He lifted himself up, hooked his hands under Mycroft's arms as though he really were a child, and hoisted the boy up onto the bed with him. His hands went for the fastenings of Mycroft's trousers right away, placing himself half atop the boy as if there were any chance Mycroft might try to escape. The trousers and pants came down with such little effort Sherlock barely had to pop a button, Mycroft's hips were so narrow and his erection was so small. Sherlock's eyes weren't judging - it was merely anatomy, soft, creamy, beautiful anatomy - but they were _intent_ all the same. At every new turn Sherlock had to study what he saw and what he felt, purely on principle, and then he dove right in. 

Laying one hand firmly on each of Mycroft's hips, Sherlock flattened him down against the bed and, with just a little pause to calculate what he was about to do, licked with the flat of his tongue up the underside of Mycroft's short length.

Mycroft gasped and jerked under Sherlock's hands. He wasn't able to move very far, held down like that. Sherlock's attention was firmly on what was in front of him, recording sight and taste and scent. On anyone else, it might have been off-putting, but Mycroft knew Sherlock. He'd seen the same expression before, whenever his brother turned the whole of his mind towards an object of interest. Mycroft had never expected to land in the center of that focus in quite this way. He watched Sherlock's tongue dart out to try a different angle and a shudder ran up his body.

Had Sherlock been any other lover, he would have smiled at the reaction he received instead of simply continuing his laser like stare. Mycroft, however, could see the smile that wasn't there. Sherlock was pleased with himself, and it showed in his attentiveness. His thumbs massaged the slim dip in Mycroft's thighs and after one last little flick of his tongue, Sherlock licked his lips and closed them over Mycroft's cock. He took the whole thing at once after deciding it would be more stimulating that way, and quickly found that in order to get the pressure he wanted, he had to suck, hard, wrap his lips around it and hollow his mouth so that every bit of flesh was caressed. 

Incredible as the sensation was, _watching_ Sherlock do this added another layer to Mycroft's pleasure. Perhaps it was the thrill of the taboo. Perhaps he was sicker, by society's standards, than even he'd expected. Whatever it was, the boy was quickly reduced to panting and soft cries. Sherlock was incredibly observant and didn't do things by halves; he began predicting where sensitive points would be based upon what he was seeing and his knowledge of anatomy, and the intensity he applied was just shy of being overwhelming. 

"Shhh-... Sherl-..." Every time Mycroft tried to speak, Sherlock did something else with his mouth that made his voice catch. Small fingers twisted in Sherlock's dark curls and Mycroft tried to hold on.

Eventually he pulled hard enough to get Sherlock's attention and Sherlock pulled off with a little wet pop. He blinked up at Mycroft, writhing on the bed, expression all screwed up and chest heaving with every breath he took. Sherlock's lips curled like he was realizing for the first time what he'd reduced his brother to, and he _enjoyed_ it. He wanted to tell Mycroft how he'd never seen him come undone so thoroughly before, not by Sherlock's hand - or mouth, as it were, but the moment it graced the tip of his tongue was the moment he realized it would break the mood. Sherlock simply let his grin widen and the pride show on his face. 

The blood had dried on Mycroft's cheeks, and Sherlock wanted to see it again. Without thinking he stripped one of the plasters from his chest and watched his blood seep to the surface. Mycroft's eyes never left him, Sherlock could see out of the edge of his periphery. He smeared two fingers over the wound and they came away bloody. Sherlock knew what he wanted. He got up on his knees and leaned over Mycroft, taking the digits to the boy's lips, knowing all the while he was giving away a little secret of his own, but Mycroft had figured it out already. What was it to him if Sherlock indulged it now? 

With bloodied tracks smearing Mycroft’s bottom lip, Sherlock was painting the picture of a crime scene. He found it striking. 

Mycroft's breathing slowed and he stayed perfectly still. The happiness in Sherlock's eyes left an ache in him; Sherlock rarely smiled like that anymore. Not at him, at least. 

Sherlock began trailing across his skin with bloody fingers, leaving a crimson trail in their wake, and Mycroft knew what was coming. Knew without a doubt that wherever Sherlock touched now, his mouth was going to follow. The boy's flush deepened just thinking about it. More so when he added his own ideas to the mix. Mycroft wondered what would have happened if Sherlock had come upon him after he'd toyed with a victim, spattered with blood. Perhaps his brother would have found it too much to resist. The images that followed that line of imagination caused Mycroft to bite his lip to stifle a moan.

Sherlock dove down, beginning where his trail had ended at the clavicle of Mycroft's neck. He licked swipe after swipe, a little hesitant at first, sometimes remembering himself, but he gave in to the desire quickly enough. He continued up Mycroft's neck, finding his own impulses peculiar, but not enough to stop, until finally he reached Mycroft's mouth. 

Their lips brushed and Sherlock paused, just hanging there. His own desires were surprising him, and he wanted to see whether he could stave them off or whether their pull would be too strong to dispel. He knew he wanted to continue and would, but he also wanted to test himself. It might have seemed like a tease to Mycroft, stopping with their lips just touching and Sherlock's mouth parted just so, but he was curious.

Sherlock was patient, but Mycroft wasn't. His arms laced around Sherlock's neck and pulled him closer, enough to draw him into a real kiss. The point of all of this, after all, wasn't merely to provide Sherlock with an unusual learning experience. Mycroft needed a distraction, needed some desires satiated enough to stop him from bolting out of the house under the sway of unwise impulses. Sherlock was supposed to crowd out that portion of his mind that was beginning to lament the fact that he’d left Jim and the freedom the criminal had offered. Freedom and other things.

It was with that in mind that Mycroft bit at Sherlock's lower lip and ground his hips up against his brother. 

He was met with the resistance of Sherlock grinding back down and a gasp between their mouths. Sherlock's hesitation melted away and he became quickly pliant to Mycroft's needs as well as the spark of his own. He reached down and tugged off the remains of his boxers and Mycroft's pants until they were both at last completely naked. And then he was on top of Mycroft again, hands mapping paths up the length of his body, full mouth nudging Mycroft's open, straining erection hard and heavy between them. 

" _Mycroft,_ " Sherlock whispered into the kiss. He knew what was about to happen, but he needed his brother to guide him one step further. 

Mycroft was caught in a dreamlike haze - everything was too real, and nothing was. Sherlock, so familiar, now towered over him, skin pressed to skin, all seeking hands and need that was hot against his thigh. Sherlock whispered his name, and the sound of it made the boy shiver. He'd never heard Sherlock's voice sound like that before, and it was directed at _him_.

"...second drawer, there, behind you. You'll have to use your fingers, go slow. It has to be worked up to," Mycroft whispered back. 

He watched Sherlock's hand dip into the drawer and come back with a bottle. It spread in a smooth glob over Sherlock's fingers before he set it aside and tested the consistency with a scrutinizing eye. Once satisfied, he brought the hand slowly down between them.

Sherlock kept himself bent over Mycroft to watch both the trail of his fingers and his brother's face. His single-minded focus was back, nearly expressionless with the intensity of it. His palm brushed over Mycroft's cock as he moved down, pressing enticingly along the way, and then applied pressure even lower, just behind his balls, and Sherlock approved of what that did to Mycroft based on the shift in his expression. Sherlock did it once again before he moved his touch even lower, smearing the gel over his target, moving one finger in a slow circle against the ring of muscle. His eyes lifted to Mycroft's face, making sure he was ready. 

Mycroft was used to being in the dominant, superior position between the two of them. Sherlock's gaze made him feel vulnerable, pinned to the sheets, but he was waiting for a cue. Waiting for permission. Sherlock's thumb pressed just below his balls again and caused his eyelids to flutter closed. Mycroft took a breath and nodded.

He'd barely finished the motion when Sherlock's finger pressed forward. Breath hissed through Mycroft's teeth; he remembered this, but as if from a distance of twenty years rather than a single day. Time didn't make sense anymore, and neither did the jumble of his memories, mixing up the present and the past.

Sherlock let out a breath as if he were the one feeling the intrusion, as if pressing a part of himself inside his brother surprised him more than he’d anticipated. 

Mycroft was warm, his body welcoming and pliant and so very soft. Sherlock remembered to move. He pressed the digit in farther, slowly, watching Mycroft's kiss-bruised mouth part and pale lashes flutter. He'd never remembered Mycroft looking so beautiful. When he thought he'd gone far enough, Sherlock slid the digit out, added more lube, and slid back in again, this time creating a slow back and forth rhythm. A second finger waited at the ready while he watched Mycroft's reactions. 

Everything quieted. Mycroft was no longer dwelling on intrusive thoughts and memories, but on the sensation of being breached and the knowledge of who was doing it. Sherlock was being very careful, but there was something more to it - a lightness to the touch that spoke more of tenderness than detached, objective care. Mycroft's eyes opened just enough for him to stare up at Sherlock through his lashes.  
Sherlock evidently was enjoying this in ways he hadn't quite expected. Some of his brother's focus had softened, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile in response. "...yes?"

Sherlock glanced up, surprised at the question. "Nothing," he whispered. Then thought again. "Just...you're very...beautiful." 

Sherlock didn't stop the slide of his finger. In fact, seeing Mycroft was about to respond, he went out of his way to add another, watching the boy pause at the sensation with a strange little jolt of satisfaction. Sherlock found he liked it immensely whenever he threw Mycroft off guard. 

Off-guard was a slight understatement; Mycroft had heard such things often enough from his captors, but he'd understood it to be particular to _them_. Sherlock had spent a good portion of their childhood, and beyond, teasing him about his looks, sometimes in cruel ways. Mycroft had done his best to brush it off and pretend it was nothing, but insecurity about such things had been a persistent feature in his life when his brother's words were just one more voice among many. Mycroft had understood that the comments might have been uttered by others out of spite or jealousy for his natural talents, but that hadn't caused them to sting any less.

And yet Sherlock was telling the truth. Mycroft could see it in his eyes, the way he was studying the smaller body in front of him with a focus that was beginning to border on hunger. Mycroft licked his lips. "...how?"

"A shift in perspective, perhaps," Sherlock's voice rumbled quietly, a heavy contrast to Mycroft's light tones. Sherlock was obviously aware that he'd said differently in the past. He'd been very small when he'd started saying those things. Mycroft had been older, seemed at times gangly, pudgy, or awkward as he'd gone through adolescence to the young Sherlock who had yet to experience any of those things. And even still it was more than that. Sherlock would have been roughly five when Mycroft was the age he was now, but Sherlock could never remember Mycroft carrying himself as he did now, with a confidence in his own physicality born only from experience. 

Sherlock did not wish to elaborate further. He was not one for waxing poetic, no matter how much he happened to be feeling at the time. So, instead, he pressed fingers up a little on the next stroke, experimentally looking for what he knew to be a very pleasurable area of the male body. 

He found it. 

Mycroft's thoughts promptly derailed the moment Sherlock's finger pressed the right spot. He gasped and his back arched of its own accord. Again, Mycroft was flooded with a bizarre sense of time, knowing that it hadn't been so very long since he'd experienced this, but remembering it from a great distance.  
Sherlock, of course, was fascinated, and reacted accordingly. Mycroft was quickly reduced to a trembling mess as his brother decided to test the variables, experimenting with different amounts of pressure, motions, and angles. Mycroft wasn't going to last very long, if Sherlock kept this up.

Sherlock leaned down, growing more and more exhilarated with the sight of Mycroft's writhing. Their mouths met eagerly, Mycroft consumed with sensation and Sherlock wanting a part of it so badly. He knew he was much bigger than two fingers, as inviting as Mycroft seemed, so carefully Sherlock massaged his way a little more and tried to add a third. It was a little awkward at first, and Sherlock couldn't be sure whether Mycroft's shifting was from discomfort or pleasure. It was tight, but they fit. After several strokes like that Sherlock was getting impatient. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock's hand still burned, and it was difficult to remember to relax like this, but Mycroft could remember what it was like. What it felt like when he was prepared enough. He found his voice. "...yes, but you're going to have to go slow. You'll be tempted to push all the way in very quickly - don't. Slow will give me time to adjust."

Sherlock's fingers retreated all at once and left a feeling of void. Mycroft swallowed and glanced down, just in time to see Sherlock preparing himself. A tangle of emotions hit his stomach including, if he was honest with himself, a sort of thrill. He wanted to see Sherlock lose himself, lose control for once. He wanted to be the focus of that.

Once he was coated with lube, Sherlock lifted Mycroft's knees and spread them apart. He bent down to press his hips between Mycroft's short legs, lining himself up. His lips parted at the sight of it. He would never have thought something like this would have turned him on so much. Yet here he was, with Mycroft laid out before him, cool grey eyes gazing back up at him with just as much lust and a little more nervousness than Sherlock was feeling. 

Sherlock found his hand stroking through the hair at Mycroft's temple before he bent down for another kiss. "Alright, slow," he breathed against the boy's mouth before glancing down, watching the head of his cock press against Mycroft, using his hand to raise Mycroft’s small hips to make the angle easier, and so very slowly easing himself inside. 

Sherlock's mouth fell open. A groan escaped his lips. It felt so good. He managed not to drive himself deeper, but only just. 

It felt good, if a little painful, for Mycroft as well, but the look on Sherlock's face made him clench around the shaft inside him. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock like that - _no one_ had. He was close enough that Mycroft barely had to lean up in order to claim his mouth, letting his tongue delve through lips that had parted in shock. He felt Sherlock quiver in result, but his brother kept true to his word. When he pushed forward, it was in a slow, controlled motion, gradually locking them together.

When he could go no farther, Sherlock's eyes closed and he wrapped his arms around Mycroft, pressing his head in the crook of Mycroft's neck. His breath ghosted hot against the boy's ear and Sherlock felt a shudder run down his spine and pool low in his belly. It occurred to him not for the first time that so many individual aspects of what they were doing, that would not have interested him on their own, were coalescing together to become something irresistible, something perfect. He could not imagine himself feeling this way doing this very same act with a stranger, and yet he could not imagine doing this with Mycroft as their relationship had been before either. 

He glanced up and, seeing that Mycroft was alright, gave an experimental thrust of his hips. 

Mycroft's eyes widened and his arms tightened their hold around Sherlock. He hadn't quite finished loosening up, but it was enough that Sherlock's thrusts felt pleasurable rather than uncomfortable. Mycroft felt stretched tight, filled, and it made a difference that it was Sherlock. Their eyes locked and their minds touched, and Mycroft was reminded of what it had been like with Jim, slipping into each other’s heads while their bodies joined. He wanted that again. "...more."

Sherlock's hips snapped forward the moment Mycroft said it and he whined low in his throat. He was more elusive than Jim was, mentally. Jim was all intent and dominance, cunning and focus. Sherlock held a wall between himself and the rest of the world and was only just beginning to peer around it. That required a certain amount of trust Sherlock wasn't used to giving, even, or perhaps especially, to Mycroft no matter how alike they were. But Sherlock was gradually coming out of his shell. The more Mycroft welcomed him, the more their feud fell away, and the more Sherlock's mental defenses lowered. He was staring at Mycroft now, using his arms to keep himself upright just enough to hover over the boy and glance down at their thrusting hips too. The sight seemed to mesmerize Sherlock. Until he looked back up again and was caught in Mycroft's gaze. What he saw there made his hips jerk harder. 

Mycroft was slowly coming unraveled. He'd glanced down between them as well, watching Sherlock move and disappear into his body. He felt too much to keep up pretenses, something Sherlock must have seen; his brother's thrusts grew abruptly sharper. Mycroft wasn't used to feeling overpowered by Sherlock, but the boy he'd cared for was now a man, in a way he wasn't any longer.

Sherlock shifted and changed the angle, and a moan filled the room - too high pitched for it to have been Sherlock. Mycroft realized he must have made it, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Sherlock's mouth fell open a little wider, like he couldn't believe what he'd heard. He gasped and gave a particularly deep thrust, drawing Mycroft's hips up to him tight and closing his eyes for a split second. He was panting. When he opened them again, he looked down at Mycroft and then fell on the boy, mouth latching onto his smaller one. Sherlock groaned like he was hungry, and his thrusts came quicker. He was losing himself in Mycroft in a way he hadn't expected. Mycroft's eyes held him in place just as easily as Sherlock's body held Mycroft in place. He was so much larger, but Mycroft wasn't afraid or defensive, his body welcomed Sherlock, and Sherlock was falling into it with every bit of himself. He thought he would be in control, that this would be an experience of the body alone., He thought his mind would take a backseat, and he was very wrong. 

Mycroft's legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips and welcomed him in, body and mind. Sherlock was letting instinct rule him for once, losing himself, and seemed surprised to be enjoying the experience of letting go as much as he was. Mycroft’s own hunger was spoken through kisses, and a helpless sound from the back of his throat when Sherlock's tongue chased his and began to plunder. Their rhythm was quickening now, and Sherlock's observational skills had come in handy once again: he managed to hit his mark nearly every time, driving Mycroft into a state of desperation. His hands clawed at Sherlock's larger form, as if drawing him closer would get him what he wanted.

Sherlock had to maneuver a little to reach his hand between them, almost flattened between their bodies, but he managed. His long fingers, almost too big, found Mycroft's cock and Sherlock drank in the hitch of a moan that followed from the boy. He was almost smiling into their kiss now, enjoying everything he never thought he'd be able to, losing himself in an entirely different way than cocaine had once provided, and loving what he was doing to Mycroft - Mycroft, who was usually every bit as cool and detached as Sherlock himself. For Sherlock to let go of all of that was like an epiphany. 

Once Sherlock slipped beneath the surface façade, he found the rest of his brother. Not the highly-controlled persona that Mycroft had hid behind like a protective mask, or the bloodthirsty, curious killer that he'd seen glimpses of every now and again, but all the rest. Pleasure had cracked him open enough that all Sherlock had to do was reach out and touch.

Mycroft was getting equally lost in Sherlock, around him and in him. The fingers around his cock were stroking enough to drive him mad, but not quite enough to push him over the edge. Not yet.

Sherlock bent his head to press his temple against Mycroft's. Whatever disconcertion he'd felt at knowing his brother so intimately in the beginning had fallen away. It was like they'd gone back to the time they were young again, when they were on the same side, when Mycroft was the only one who understood Sherlock's mind and Sherlock was the only one who understood his. Except not. The feeling was familiar, and that was why Sherlock recognized it, but it wasn't like then. Mycroft had become so much more in the time that had passed, and so had Sherlock. He'd never _wanted_ his brother like this, to be inside him, to know him, and not just to see inside his mind, but to possess his thoughts. Sherlock wanted every part of Mycroft focused on him for this. 

" _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock found himself growling. His eyes narrowed, catching the boy with his gaze as something entirely possessive seeped into his stomach. 

Mycroft's grey eyes turned to Sherlock's, and he felt something click into place. Another wave of lust flooded through him. Everything else fell away, even the rest of the room - Sherlock was all that there was, and Mycroft had never seen him like this before. Sherlock reserved his passion for music, for cases, not for people, but his brother was looking positively predatory.

That only made Mycroft want him more.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft's voice came as a strained whisper, but the way his hands curled in Sherlock's dark hair and his legs tightened around his waist said all that was needed. He wanted more.

Sherlock's hips snapped forward. He hovered just over Mycroft, taking up all the room in his brother's vision. His hands carded through soft, red curls before changing tactics and raking through it. Sherlock liked that. He liked that every time he jarred Mycroft, it kept him focused on Sherlock. Sherlock's hands caught his wrists and he laid his body almost flat over Mycroft, still pushing in with deep, hard thrusts, as much as he could manage given how small and tight Mycroft was, and rumbled in his ear. " _I want you. Like this. Just like this._ "

Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered and his breath caught. Being physically trapped all of a sudden had jarred him into a state of alarm. Sherlock barely escaped getting bitten in response. "Then _take_. I want you, like this, but more." If they were going to fall, they'd fall together, tangled in each other with all the walls crumbling down. Mycroft was tired of being alone, in body and mind. " _Mine_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth came down over his own, and this time there were teeth. Sherlock never had any indication that Mycroft enjoyed pain and yet he couldn't stop himself. His hands gripped hard at Mycroft's wrists before he gave up and wrapped his arms all the way around Mycroft's body, trapping him and holding him tight against Sherlock while the pleasure built and built inside him and his teeth caught the plump flesh of Mycroft's lip. Sherlock's voice rumbled with every breath. If Mycroft had tried to break free, Sherlock would have held him down, locked them together and kept them there until they were exhausted. One of his hands clamped behind Mycroft's neck, long fingers wrapping around the back like alien claws. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Yes. _Mine_. Yours. _Yes_." He was about to lose himself. 

Mycroft’s eyes darkened and, around the kiss, he'd started to smile. At this point, pain was a pleasant counterpoint, interpreted by his body simply as a more positive sensation. When he had the chance, he bit back, and the two of them started fucking in the truest sense. They ate at each other, Sherlock doing his best to possess his brother while Mycroft clung to him and tried to entrap him. His nails raked down Sherlock's back, leaving bloody furrows to match the knife marks he'd left on Sherlock's front. He wanted Sherlock to remember this. To want this again.

Mycroft's sharp little teeth drew blood and Sherlock only noticed when he threw his head back, unable to hold in a cry pleasure, and felt something warm run down his chin. It surprised him that when he licked it, he found that familiar sharp coppery taste. He took a second to look down at Mycroft like that, with his hips still working and a bloody mess over his chin, and again his hand came down to palm Mycroft's cock, as though Sherlock were saying 'look at me, look at what you've made me, brought forth in me'. 

Just as Jim had done for Mycroft. 

And it was beautiful. Mycroft couldn't look away, not even when Sherlock's thrusts matched the strokes of his hand and sent him over the edge. He cried out, his entire frame clenching around his brother's cock while he climaxed, their eyes locked together. And still Sherlock was thrusting, pushing him into a sensitized state that was just short of painful.

If Sherlock could have smiled through his panting he would have. He reveled in the sight, the sensation, the whole of everything that was Mycroft coming apart in his hands. Each thrust of Sherlock's hips jerked the boy's body roughly, interrupting his cries as Mycroft came, and Sherlock could feel every little twitch inside his smaller body. 

He fell on the boy as Mycroft rode out his climax. Sherlock's hands cupped his face and tangled in his hair. He held Mycroft down and loved the feel of it, watching him and imagining watching himself through Mycroft's eyes - looming above him with flashing eyes and dark tousled hair and hands that refused to let go just so they could be together just this much longer - and then Sherlock was coming too. It took him almost by surprise, a crash of pleasure that gave him the sense that he didn't have control of his body. For a second that scared him, until his eyes locked with Mycroft's. 

Sherlock gasped and stilled, inside and out, and spilled into Mycroft. 

Mycroft could feel the moment Sherlock came; he felt his brother still and saw the brief flicker of fear and disquiet in his eyes before Sherlock twitched inside him. Mycroft smiled with bloody lips, just watching the way Sherlock's expressions changed, both of them staring back at the other.

They gradually melted against one another as both of their bodies relaxed in the afterglow. Mycroft's legs kept Sherlock from pulling out. He pulled his brother closer instead, kissing him one more time. He wanted to sink into the warmth radiating off Sherlock's skin, to have this closeness for however long Sherlock would permit it.

Sherlock's eyes closed, lashes grazing against Mycroft's cheek as he buried his face there. He became a giant blanket, exhausted all at once and content to wrap himself around Mycroft as soon as he saw that it was appreciated. Sherlock didn't know exactly what was proper form after what they'd just done, but he was thinking about such things less and thinking about what he wanted and what Mycroft wanted more. That was by far the way he preferred it. And it occurred to him then that Mycroft, in sharing this with him, had given him a place that was their own, a place to shut the world out. Just here with Mycroft wrapped in his arms. Mycroft felt the same, he was sure; that was what this was all about. But it had worked for Sherlock too, and Sherlock was so unexpectedly grateful he nudged Mycroft's cheek with his nose and pressed his lips there in a long kiss. 

Mycroft's breath left him in a sigh, and he realized then that he'd been tensing on some level for rejection. For Sherlock to declare the experiment over and retreat back behind the walls they'd built against one another and the world. He wondered if Sherlock's mind had gone as quiet as his own. The turmoil that had been building had vanished, for the most part, sated for the moment by everything they'd done. He was comfortable like this. They knew each other.

Mycroft's hand rose to stroke through Sherlock's curls. 

Sherlock was smiling. Mycroft could tell. He felt it brush against his cheek. 

Sherlock didn't suppose sex was like this usually, for normal people. It had been every bit as good as every high he'd ever been on - better, even. Because of Mycroft. By reflex he almost tried to shut that thought down, catch it before sentiment took hold of him and Mycroft would fix him with cool eyes and call him out on it… before he remembered that Mycroft was just as warm and open beside him as Sherlock felt, and for _once_ would not hold it against him. And so, Sherlock let himself feel. He wanted to ask Mycroft to stay with him for the night, but Sherlock didn't want to speak and break their perfect silence. Instead, he hooked the blanket that had tangled beside them and drew it over his back, bundling it around them both before settling back down with his smile pressed against Mycroft's cheek again. 

Mycroft knew. They didn't need to speak. This wasn't quite the same as childhood, when Sherlock had sought comfort and reassurance and Mycroft had provided, but it was close enough. They understood one another better than the world around them did. Mycroft squeezed Sherlock briefly and settled against him. He didn't want to break the moment either, even to slip into the adjacent tiny bathroom to clean up.

Flickering blue light from the monitors showered Mycroft ghostly outlines of his brother's features. Mycroft wondered if this contentment would last. Another part of him wondered, somewhat wistfully, if he could convince Sherlock to do this again.

Sherlock was already drifting into sleep, so relaxed he was wrapped around Mycroft. He tried to stay awake to enjoy the moment, but he was too comfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so content. 

Sherlock had helped ward away Mycroft's cravings and sate his needs. He didn't know what would come in the morning, but he knew that if Mycroft came to him again asking for help, he would. He did not yet know if Mycroft had woken a new need within him to match - Sherlock had found his addictions as easily as Mycroft, after all - but he would find out. For now, he would leave those thoughts for later.

Mycroft followed Sherlock into unconsciousness. Between the safety of the room and the unusual sense of security he had in his brother's embrace, it didn't take long for him to fall asleep. Strange dreams plagued him - visions of his brother and Jim in a room, both of them latched onto one of his arms and tugging while Sebastian watched everything from the shadows. Both men were desperate. Mycroft didn't understand why he had to choose.

Mycroft woke with his heart pounding and his breath coming in short gasps. For a moment he was completely disoriented by his surroundings and the warm body partially draped atop him. That is, until the previous night's memories came flooding back.

 _Sherlock._ Sherlock had let him torture him to keep him from leaving and sating his needs elsewhere, and it had all spiraled out of control from there. Sherlock kissing him, licking blood off of his fingers. Fucking him with a possessive glint in his eyes, and the look on his face when he'd climaxed - the first time he'd ever done so with another person, Mycroft was certain. The memories were enough that he felt hard again, and Mycroft bit down on his own hand to stifle a moan.

Sherlock's breathing changed. His head turned, just a little twitch, but Mycroft could tell he was waking up. Slowly his body began to move, instinctively curling around Mycroft, the warm, soft thing Sherlock had been coveting the night before. One cool grey eye opened and looked around. Mycroft could see in it pause as Sherlock took in his surroundings with a sleep addled consciousness, and then it closed again. Sherlock shifted against him and nuzzled his face into Mycroft's neck. Sherlock didn't care how or why he'd woken up that way, and he was perfectly happy to go back to sleep. 

Mycroft's expression softened. He stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair and turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Sherlock's neck. He was happy at the evidence that, to some deep level, their relationship had been repaired by this. Sherlock would not have comfortably settled back down, naked in his arms, if he hadn't felt safe and wanted enough that even the less-conscious portions of him felt it. 

Mycroft’s own consciousness had other things on its mind. Sherlock had softened and slipped out of him, but Mycroft could still feel him pressed against his body. His own cock was trapped against Sherlock's hip, hardening enough that he shifted in discomfort.

Sherlock stirred again, probably at the feel of Mycroft's lips. He stretched a little and inhaled the scent of his brother's hair. It had the faint scent of shampoo and the less subtle scent of what they'd done the night prior. Sherlock's shifting only caused his hip to rub against Mycroft and didn't help the boy's predicament at all, even if Sherlock didn't seem to notice. His arms were too tight and one of his legs was wrapped around Mycroft's, preventing him from moving away, or anywhere else. 

Mycroft whined softly in the back of his throat, frustrated. Sherlock's breath ghosting across his ear, and the friction against his cock only served to summon last night's memories back in _vivid_ detail. He couldn't help but thrust in response, seeking something more. Sherlock stretched again, and the motion exposed a bit of neck in a way that was too tempting to resist. Mycroft pressed his mouth to it and sucked, knowing it was likely to send a tingle down Sherlock's spine.

He heard a low groan in response. Sherlock was still only barely awake, but Mycroft had his attention now, what little of it there was. Sherlock came out of sleep gradually the more Mycroft worked at his neck. Mycroft could feel that it was working, and so Sherlock found kisses trailing all the way up to the corner of his ear. His eyelids fluttered and a little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth before Sherlock blearily opened his eyes. 

What he found waiting for him was Mycroft with a needy and imploring look directed at him. Sherlock blinked a few times before his smile widened. 

"...good morning." Sherlock still was only partially awake, from what Mycroft could tell, but a little encouragement would get him the rest of the way. Mycroft pulled him down into a kiss, mindful enough to keep it gentle. Bites from the previous night would have left the flesh tender. "You seem to have slept well enough."

Sherlock responded in a hum, part of him noticing that even here Mycroft was taking care of him. The thought sent a pleasantly warm feeling through him, and that was when he noticed the way Mycroft was pressing against him. Sherlock's brain switched on. 

So they were comfortable now. With this. That was entirely good news. Sherlock liked that a lot. It was strange, yes, to have so much change so dramatically in such little time, but Sherlock liked this change. He could feel the smile on his mouth deepen. His own thoughts were sifting through the last night and his body was already responding to Mycroft's. This was different, they were in a new mental place now, but Sherlock's interest didn't diminish. 

"So have you," Sherlock's voice was a smooth rumble. 

"It's amazing what stress relief and the right companion will do," Mycroft responded. He searched Sherlock's face for any hints of hesitation, but Sherlock looked... at ease with this. And still interested, thankfully. Mycroft hadn't been certain whether this might have been one of Sherlock's brief fancies, experimented with once before being cast aside, but it now appeared that he was in no danger of that. 

Mycroft's hand slid down from Sherlock's hair to rest on his cheek. Sherlock's smile turned out to be contagious. "...well-rested enough to have some energy to burn?"

"Ready to go again, are you?" Sherlock countered. He caught himself before he asked if it had been like that with Jim. Instead, he kissed the corner of Mycroft's mouth and let his hands glide down the length of Mycroft's back, ending at the round spheres of his arse. It amazed Sherlock how easy he found this touch. Normally it didn't come naturally to him at all. But it was a nice feeling, and perhaps that was what made the difference. He _wanted_ to feel Mycroft's flesh in his hands, and the way the movement caused Mycroft to press into him had him brushing up against Sherlock in all the right places as well. 

"One of the side effects of being this young again, I'm afraid. Recovery time, and subsequent interest, is very rapid." Uncertainty flickered across his youthful features for a moment; Sherlock certainly was acting like he was interested, but... old paranoia died hard. Revealing secrets and emotions just meant you'd exposed yourself for a blow.

Sherlock, however, hadn't stopped touching him. His smile hadn't turned wry and mocking. "...are you... still interested?"

Sherlock's smile softened. There was a brief hesitation in his answer, as though he were having a similar debate to what Mycroft had just considered, before he replied. "Yes." 

It remained to be seen whether Sherlock would continue to be this interested in sex in the long run. He'd been used to life without it, but he certainly wasn't finished exploring yet. At least his body and...that damned sentiment, told him so. Still, Sherlock found that he was in too good a mood this morning to mull it over. His lips curled and he closed the distance between himself and Mycroft, catching the boy's mouth with a kiss that turned immediately hungry. The more Mycroft rubbed against him, the more his own arousal began to grow. 

Mycroft relaxed slowly when Sherlock's words were followed by mirroring actions. His mind still had trouble balancing this and old memories together, but he was... enjoying this. Not just the pleasurable touch, but that it _was_ Sherlock. That they'd stopped cutting at one another and started enjoying each other again, if not quite in a way he'd ever anticipated. Mycroft was learning more about himself all the time, including a mounting stack of evidence that he had a taste for size differences and being overpowered. "...more like last night, or something else?"

Sherlock pulled back with a furrowed brow and a quizzical, internal look. "I don't know." Last night had been all impulse. Sherlock had done whatever his desires had led him to do and Mycroft allowed. He'd liked that plenty, and wondered if there was something else Mycroft wanted that might not be in line with Sherlock's impulses. Even though he had yet to explore them fully. "I enjoyed what we did last night."

“So did I. I just didn't know if you were curious about some of the things you might have come across when investigating." Sherlock had sat up enough that Mycroft got a good look at the plasters stuck to his chest. He reached out to trace over them, pressing slightly and smiling when Sherlock winced. The bite mark on his brother's shoulder, as well, had blossomed into a vivid purple rosette. It reminded him of his own bruises, left by other hands. Others that he'd have to deal with. Time was running out on him, and Mycroft still didn't know what path to take.

"'While investigating,'" Sherlock repeated slowly, coming to realize the things Mycroft might be referring to. The cases that, had Mycroft let himself go, might not have been committed by nameless, faceless criminals Sherlock tracked down for the thrill of the chase and little more, but by Mycroft himself. And Sherlock could not help but wonder again, becoming ever more certain as he did so, that this was the sort of play Mycroft had entertained with Jim. Mycroft wanted more of it. 

John would be horrified. 

John would say no. He would draw the line here, even though technically Sherlock was not helping Mycroft commit any of the crimes he knew Jim had let him indulge in. This was between them and them alone. ...and so, Sherlock decided, this was not where he would draw the line. Because if he were truly honest with himself, he was rather interested in what Mycroft had to say. "What do you have in mind?" 

Mycroft had been asking himself the same question. "I'm not certain," he admitted. "Strange as this might sound, I've only recently begun to discover other pieces of myself, simply because I didn't have the opportunity to, or did not permit myself to explore. I've... been rough with partners, as I'm certain you have no difficulty imagining, but I enjoyed the reciprocation more than I had expected to." One glance downward was enough to draw Sherlock's eyes to the marks on his smaller body: bruises left from gripping hands and greedy mouths.

Sherlock had noticed last night that Mycroft hadn't objected when he'd gotten a little rough, a little too possessive. That was one thing Sherlock hadn't expected from his brother. Mycroft had always liked control, and so had Sherlock. They battled relentlessly for the upper hand in everything until now. 

Sherlock licked his lips. Feeling Mycroft so small against him, thoughts of settling his weight over the boy and holding him down again flitted through his mind. Sherlock had tasted his own blood plenty yesterday. He wondered if Mycroft's would taste different, whether his tongue could detect the subtle variances between them or whether it would be only in his imagination. And Sherlock realized he rather liked these thoughts. 

"I think maybe we can improvise something..." Sherlock whispered. His hands drifted down Mycroft's back until he gripped the boy firmly at the hips. 

Sherlock pressed into areas that were still tender, and Mycroft shifted, torn between discomfort and the spike of interest Sherlock's possessiveness had generated.

He couldn't help but compare Sherlock to the only other people he'd experienced this with. Sherlock was somewhere between Jim and Sebastian - closer to Jim in mind, but taller and with more physical leverage, if not to the degree the bodyguard had had. Sherlock glanced down to watch his own hands explore, and Mycroft began to wonder if he might be able to have the best of both worlds. Perhaps he could leave and take Sherlock with him.

Mycroft's thoughts were cut short when one of Sherlock's hands left his hip and palmed him roughly. He couldn't help but whimper.

Sherlock's gaze darted back up to him and a smile danced over his lips. It looked dangerous. And excited. Suddenly Sherlock was flipping them over, rolling atop Mycroft, and using his weight to pin the boy down. Sherlock's eyes sparked with the thrill of it, and anticipation hummed through his body. This wasn't just anyone he had pliant beneath him; this was _Mycroft_. Where he'd felt rivalry before Sherlock now felt something...quite different. 

Sherlock dove down, but went for Mycroft's neck. His lips closed around a patch of flesh, teeth grazing along the way. Mycroft was so small, Sherlock would only have to open his mouth a little wider if he really wanted to do some damage. His fingers squeezed around Mycroft's hips as he thought about where best he could attempt to draw blood. Somewhere that wouldn't be seen. The top of Mycroft's shoulder. 

Fear jolted through the boy, quickly turning to lust. Sherlock would hurt him, but not _too_ badly. Certainly not enough to cause severe damage or kill. Just seeing the look on Sherlock's face had been a thrill on its own. He'd drawn something out of his brother that nobody else had ever seen. 

Mycroft put up a struggle, just for the game of it, writhing away from the teeth at his neck and trying to squirm out of Sherlock's grasp. He grinned when Sherlock got impatient and let go of his hips to pin his wrists instead. His laugh turned into a yelp of pain when Sherlock's mouth drifted over to his shoulder and his brother sunk teeth into the flesh, mirroring what Mycroft had done to him earlier.

Sherlock's gasp was a muffled sound followed by a rumble through his whole body. The way he could do that with his voice...Mycroft had heard it when Sherlock was angry, annoyed, being particularly frustrating just for the hell of it with his deep drawl, but Mycroft had never heard it like this. It could have been a purr, but too deep a register for any animal they'd ever kept in the house. Sherlock's tongue swiped in strokes up Mycroft's shoulder, lapping up the small amount of blood he'd drawn. His teeth weren't the best way. They were blunter and more painful than necessary to get what he wanted, but Sherlock hadn't minded the jerk of Mycroft's body against him when he'd done it. When he pulled away to look at what he'd done, he found a bright red imprint of teeth on the boy's shoulder, with drops of blood welling to the surface where he'd broken skin. 

"Do you have a knife?" Sherlock whispered, wanting to make this less painful for his brother. 

Mycroft blinked and tried to focus. His gaze swiveled until it came to a rest on a cabinet across the room. "...over there. Supplies for various things, just in case-... there should be a knife, gloves, alcohol. Rope." He'd never thought, at the time he'd made the stash, that he'd ever give in, but Mycroft was the sort to want to plan for every contingency. Better to be prepared than crack, give in to impulse, and get caught because he hadn't thought ahead. "...do you know what you're doing?"

Sherlock's mouth spread wide. "Of course. My research of the human body has not been solely restricted to cadavers, you realize." With that, Sherlock slid off the bed and strode to the cabinet. He was tall on his feet, hair a complete mess from the night before. Sherlock looked all and all even worse than he usually did on the mornings, or afternoons, Mycroft had interrupted him when he simply hadn't felt like putting any clothes on or taking a shower. Once Sherlock found what he was looking for, discarding a few items, he returned quickly with a knife in hand. It was small and unassuming, a thing made for ease of use over decoration, and Sherlock appreciated it all the more for being so. His eyes were fixed on Mycroft when he climbed back up on the bed, pushing the boy back down with one hand and swinging one long leg on either side of him, sitting on his thighs and effectively holding him in place. Sherlock took a moment to inspect the knife's sharpness. 

Mycroft's expression turned wary, but a spark of excitement still hung in the air between them. The boy still wasn't used to playing the victim. Even less so with Sherlock. The history between them was a long line of Sherlock rebelling while Mycroft struggled to bring him under control, and most of the time, he'd won in the end. Sherlock had tried to get revenge with small annoyances and insults, but that was a childish attempt to soothe himself when he found his hands tied and his way blocked at every turn but the ones Mycroft wanted him to take. Sherlock could easily take past frustrations out on him right now, if he wished. Locked together in a soundproof room like this, there wouldn't be much Mycroft could do about it.

Sherlock, however, had other ideas in mind. He bent down over Mycroft with an intent gaze, cold eyes sweeping over the expanse of milky skin beneath him in order to find the spot he wanted. Finally, Sherlock decided on an area above his heart, where the muscle was thicker and no delicate tendons or bundles of nerves resided. With a last look up at Mycroft, blade hovering over the skin, Sherlock confirmed that he was still welcome. There was no doubt he saw the wariness in Mycroft's gaze, but Mycroft wasn't panicked and didn't reach out to stop him either. Not yet. Sherlock reminded himself to be careful. Not to get lost. With that in mind, he took the very tip and made a shallow slice, just enough to raise a thin line of blood to the surface. Sherlock's mouth was over it in an instant. 

Mycroft forced himself to hold still for the blade, but he couldn't help but jump when Sherlock pounced on him. A warm mouth closed over the wound, and Mycroft felt Sherlock's tongue start to lap up the blood that had welled up. Sherlock made a sound of pleasure in the back of his throat at the taste, a low growl that sent heat pooling at the base of Mycroft's spine. He gasped and his cock twitched against Sherlock's chest.

Mycroft could feel Sherlock smile against him. "Trust me yet?" Sherlock mumbled from somewhere underneath a tangle of black curls and Mycroft's chest. Sherlock lifted his chin just enough to look at Mycroft and smiled. His teeth were red with blood. 

Truth be told even Sherlock hadn't expected to take control like this, but quickly found that he didn't mind. He even liked it. In spite of his inexperience, Sherlock had never had a difficult time deciding what he wanted and what he didn't. Which reminded him... 

With careful precision, Sherlock took the blade to his forearm and drew a shallow cut along the fleshy area. Close enough, but purposefully avoiding the vein. He laid down, half atop Mycroft, half at his side and drew his arm to Mycroft's lips. A gesture of good will. 

Mycroft accepted without hesitation. He was still nervous, as he hadn't seen the depth of Sherlock's control, but Sherlock hadn't truly lost himself yet. Not to the extent Mycroft had seen in the bad days, when Sherlock was so strung out on hard drugs that he had no self-control at all.

Copper hit his tongue, and Mycroft heard Sherlock inhale sharply. The boy glanced up and locked eyes with his brother. They were alike now, painted with blood, bruised and cut and bitten. Mycroft licked his stained lips. 

Sherlock's mouth curled into a smile. He was diving at Mycroft then, with a laugh in his throat, like he was still in awe and still surprised at his own reactions to what Mycroft gave him. They hung in the moment for a heartbeat. If Sherlock could have spoken through thought, he would have told Mycroft he'd never expected to share this with him. And how wonderful it was, for once, that he'd been wrong. Sherlock had never reveled in being wrong before. 

Instead, he brought his mouth to Mycroft's in a surprisingly tender kiss, considering how he'd been behaving only moments ago. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and welcomed him in. He couldn't have fathomed having this before. He might have been tempted to try, had he known what would result, but it was unlikely either of them would have responded this well. There was more that each of them had had to experience, too many variables at play.

Mycroft tasted blood on Sherlock's tongue. His own. He was left dizzy and wondering what else they might be able to share. Sherlock had followed him into this. He might be willing to follow even further. 

Sherlock, oblivious to Mycroft's train of thought, began hitching himself higher in order to press a thigh between Mycroft's legs and rub against him. It would take a lot for his mind to be derailed from their current activity at this point. He could feel Mycroft hard against him and there was no way Mycroft hadn't noticed how interested Sherlock was either, considering how large he was in comparison.  
"Are you sore from last night?" Sherlock whispered in the tangle of hair over Mycroft's ear. 

Mycroft shivered. Sherlock was learning quickly - how to tease, where to touch. Mycroft hadn't expected any less, but it was overwhelming to be the direct target of such rapid learning. "A bit, but I'll be fine if you're slow and careful. Just don't lose yourself." Sherlock breathed against his ear and Mycroft's breath caught. "...we could try another position if you don't want repetition."

Sherlock nodded. He'd very much liked Mycroft underneath him, but he also wanted to see what Mycroft would do if he was free to move. 

Sherlock fumbled for the supplies where he'd found the lube the previous night, but realized he hadn't put it back. After a quick search, he retrieved the bottle from the floor. Spreading it out over his fingers caused his stomach to lurch with anticipation and Sherlock bit his lip. He knew what was to come and already he could barely wait. The only thing he could liken the feeling to was the first hit of a solution he'd been craving for such a long time. He bent over Mycroft again and slid his palm down his belly, feeling it quiver as Sherlock's fingers passed over his hard cock, stopping briefly to rub teasing circles before sliding lower still until one of his fingers slotted into place. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and then pushed it in slowly. 

Mycroft arched against Sherlock's hand and hissed. He still ached slightly from the previous night, but not enough to actually dampen his libido and discourage him from trying this again. Particularly when Sherlock was looking at him like this. He liked being Sherlock's focus in a positive, rather than an antagonistic way, more than he could say. Sherlock's finger stroked inside him and his toes curled. Mycroft decided a little retribution was in order; he reached down and took hold of Sherlock with both hands and began stroking in time. His skin was sticky from the previous night, but Sherlock yielded the bottle of lubricant when he saw Mycroft reach for it.

Mycroft had his younger brother trembling in no time. Sherlock's hips jerked in small thrusts with every stroke and it was obvious he was trying to hold back, but couldn't. He added another finger quickly. He needed to hurry if he was going to last. 

The way Mycroft was looking up at him with a face Sherlock could barely remember and an expression he'd never known until now was mesmerizing. Mycroft's ice cold eyes under slivers of pale brows made him look wicked when he directed that gaze at Sherlock, and Sherlock hummed in appreciation. 

A sly grin tugged at the boy's mouth. He bucked against Sherlock's hand just to see the reaction he'd get in return. Sherlock was much more expressive like this. Mycroft hoped he'd get to surprise him again shortly. "Impatient. Should I feel flattered?"

That was an angle Mycroft hadn't considered. Addictive personalities ran in the family. Perhaps it wouldn't be that difficult to turn Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock snorted, never one to hold much to propriety. "Considering the circumstances, yes. You should feel very flattered." And just to drive home his point, Sherlock added his third finger, assuming Mycroft could take it if he was already trying to ride Sherlock's hand. Sherlock saw Mycroft shift at the intrusion and smirked. "I could get used to this," he said without thinking. He wouldn't realize the connotations until later, not when looking back on this event and what was to come, but right now he meant it. When he pulled his hand free, he had to catch Mycroft's wrists to stop him from getting Sherlock too far along too quickly. He panted against the boy's neck, trying to collect himself. And then Sherlock rolled them, settling his back against the mattress and Mycroft sitting atop his lap. 

"I'm sure you could," Mycroft whispered back, oddly solemn for a moment. He paused to take in the sight before him, Sherlock sprawled out wantonly across his bed, lips parted as he caught his breath. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Sherlock didn't get a warning beyond fingers wrapping around the base of his cock. Mycroft lifted himself just enough to line them up, then began to impale himself. Sherlock's hands tried to grip him again to control the motion, and Mycroft struggled to brush them aside. 

With a grunt and a whine, Sherlock finally took to gripping Mycroft's thighs instead. He needed something to hold onto, some part of Mycroft. He didn't know how he could be expected to let go when everything inside him told him to grab onto the small body above him and flip them again. Still, Sherlock had committed himself to trying something different. He couldn't stop wondering what Mycroft's experiences were before him. The little knife lay forgotten beside them, dangerous if they flipped over too many times without remembering it. Sherlock noted it and sent it to the back of his mind. He couldn't bring forth the effort to move it and turn his attention from Mycroft for even a moment. 

Mycroft watched him with half-lidded eyes and his grin widened. Combined with the eerie light from the room's monitor screens, he looked demonic, like an overly young incubus set on corrupting an older man. He shifted back just enough to change the angle and give them both a better view. Mycroft's movements were deliberately slow - maddeningly so. He laughed when Sherlock's gaze flickered between his face and the sight of his brother's far-smaller body penetrating itself. 

Sherlock groaned and tossed his head back to the mattress. He grit his teeth and gave a sharp thrust up, hoping to jar the laughter out of Mycroft. Sherlock felt just a little helpless like this even though the sensation was extraordinary. He couldn't help it any longer. His hands latched onto Mycroft's hips with a grunt. He had to have some kind of control, some kind of stability. 

The Mycroft looking down at him with such a self satisfied grin on his face like this wasn't like the old Mycroft at all, but Sherlock still had to get used to it. 

Mycroft shook his head, but let Sherlock's hands remain. This was just another struggle for control between them, but one that Mycroft didn't actually mind. His grin faded as his expression turned calculating. He wondered what reactions he could pull out of Sherlock. His brother had weathered pain well the previous night, but Mycroft also hadn't really been trying to hurt him. Sherlock still felt untouchable in that respect, one line that he'd only cross so far. Hearing him cry out and lose himself to pleasure was another thing entirely.

Mycroft allowed Sherlock to control the rhythm for the moment, letting one of his hands drift down to stroke his own neglected cock.

Sherlock's eyes followed, watching curiously as Mycroft stroked himself. He was recording the movement for later, learning how Mycroft preferred to be touched. He strained up and against the boy, watching Mycroft bounce while Sherlock's grip helped to keep him steady. Sherlock did it again. And again. He got a rhythm going and realized, visually, what the draw was to this particular position. Mycroft was practically on display above him. 

Sherlock hissed and reached up to pull Mycroft down against him. He didn't want to lose that image, but he couldn't take being so far apart anymore. 

Mycroft dropped, but the angle quickly became awkward. Mycroft had trouble holding himself up enough to stroke himself like this. "Roll over," the boy whispered. If Sherlock wanted to be this close, the position from last night was going to serve them better. Sherlock pressed his heels against the bed to get in a few quick, deep thrusts, and Mycroft clutched at him and whined at the back of his throat. He couldn't do much more than buck against Sherlock and try to gain a bit of friction by thrusting against his stomach.

Once Sherlock got hold of himself, he obliged. Flipping them was easy and the way he slid into Mycroft by the sheer force of gravity once he'd settled nearly made Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head. Yes, he liked this better. Mycroft was trapped under him and Sherlock's thrusts slowed because he was enjoying the way he could _sink_ into Mycroft now, feeling himself press Mycroft down into the mattress and it creak beneath them. Sherlock let out a sharp gasp. Mycroft's mouth was hanging open now and his hair fell around him like a halo of tangled tawny red. Sherlock pressed himself flat against the boy and kissed him hard, rutting deep, and wished he could sink all the way into Mycroft on the molecular level. 

Mycroft hadn't quite planned this, but he wasn't going to complain. Shifting had aligned them so Sherlock could thrust deeper than before, to the point where he felt like he might split in two. Sherlock was kissing him and snapping his hips forward like he couldn't get close enough, and Mycroft felt dizzy from lack of air. Everything felt heated, from his own skin, to Sherlock's mouth on his own, to Sherlock's cock sliding in and out of him. He gasped and fumbled for one of Sherlock's hands. 

"...Sherlock... _touch_...me..."

Sherlock made a groan, like he was only just coming back into coherency at the sound of Mycroft's voice. His hand slithered between them and found Mycroft straining between their bodies. What was left of the lube on Sherlock's hand eased his grip, and Sherlock began stroking in time with his thrusts.  
Eventually he had a better idea and shifted Mycroft's knees up to hook around his back before resuming his strokes and bearing down on the boy.

Mycroft was completely pinned. He couldn't have gotten free if he tried, but he didn't want to. Sherlock looked drunk, absolutely high from what they were doing, and Mycroft couldn't tear his eyes away. Shifted up like this, he had the perfect view not only of Sherlock's face, but Sherlock's hand around his cock and the point where their bodies were joining together. Mycroft didn't know what to watch. His hands gripped Sherlock's arms to try to anchor himself. 

Sherlock was gasping and groaning with every thrust, his deep voice echoing around the room like he were in a trance. His one free hand grabbed at Mycroft's hair, yanking his head so that he was staring at Sherlock and Sherlock was staring back at him. Sherlock looked like he might have wanted to say something, or thought he was going to do something up until that point, but Mycroft transfixed him in place. At least his gaze. The rest of him couldn't stop. Even the guttural cries kept spilling from his throat while he held Mycroft there, staring into him. 

It was quickly proving to be Sherlock's undoing. His lip trembled and his thrusts became frantic. 

Sherlock just barely remembered to keep moving his hand. Stimulation and watching Sherlock unravel combined to send Mycroft into climax first. His hands clenched on Sherlock's arms and he gave one last cry before succumbing. Sherlock couldn't have missed the way his smaller body shuddered underneath him. Still, his eyes didn't close. Mycroft stared up at Sherlock, drifting and hazy from orgasm, but still focused on his brother.

When Sherlock came, it was with such an open expression it might have been mistaken for surprise. He couldn't look away from his brother, not with Mycroft's open mouth, red and panting with bliss. Sherlock grappled to hold him tight, clung to him and kissed him, and felt the most pleasant sensation crest through his body from his cock up his spine to the center of his chest, spreading a tingling feeling out through his limbs. He held still there, feeling Mycroft so tight in his embrace the boy could barely breathe, because Sherlock wanted to fill every inch of him. He gasped when they broke apart, loosening his grip after realizing what he was doing, and slumped down on the bed. That time he made sure he at least landed more underneath Mycroft than atop him. 

Mycroft's eyes finally shut. He clung weakly to his brother after Sherlock dropped to the mattress, worn out for the moment and panting against Sherlock's chest. 

They'd seen into each other, at the end. Mycroft has grasped the wordless desire Sherlock hadn't put voice to. Ideas like that sometimes led to unhealthy fixations. Mycroft wasn't certain there was any other way to describe what _this_ was, really. Divergent desires, complicated relationships, and the unbearable loneliness of being, particularly when the act of being was forever relegated to the neglected and stigmatized fringes of society. Neither of them were a fit for so-called normal people, if such a thing truly existed, but they were very much like each other in form. Enough to slot together. Much like Mycroft had with Jim, and to a lesser extent Sebastian.

Mycroft buried his face against Sherlock's chest and tried not to weep.

Sherlock's heart beat strong against his cheek, and Sherlock's hand came to rest at the back of his head. Their chests were both heaving to catch their breath and if Sherlock noticed the way Mycroft was suddenly overcome with emotion, he didn't say anything. His fingers were simply a soothing presence, massaging their way down Mycroft's scalp. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the boy and held him for a long time. They rested. Sherlock almost fell back asleep, but eventually he took notice and stroked Mycroft's cheek, trying to unfurl him from Sherlock's chest. 

Mycroft uncurled just enough to look up. The roiling emotions were all right there; Mycroft was still going to have to make a choice soon. Jim wasn't going to let him go so long as he was free, and the only alternatives were keeping him in captivity or having him killed. Neither of those were options Mycroft wanted to consider. The longer he thought about it, the more he _wanted_ to go back to being with Jim... if not exactly like how things had been before. An arrangement that was less dangerous and more equal.

Aside from concern for his own safety and longevity, Sherlock was really the only person who bound him to this side. Mycroft had made the choices he had, years ago, to keep both of them alive and give his brother a better chance at happiness than he thought would ever be a possibility for himself. If he left, there was no telling if he'd be restricted from ever seeing Sherlock again.

Sherlock's brow quirked and his eyes narrowed, fixing on Mycroft. Sherlock could see the change in him, mind whirring on something that had little to do with what they'd just done. Sherlock could tell. And he'd had been so hoping to enjoy this high a little bit longer. 

"What's wrong?"

Mycroft could feel his shields start to slide into place, the way his face started to go carefully blank. Pushing Sherlock away and cutting him off like that right now might do irreparable damage. He bit his lip and struggled to abort the impulse. "...thinking too much. Jim isn't going to stop coming for me."

They knew that before. It wasn't like Mycroft to repeat himself. Especially not to Sherlock. Mycroft meant something different, then, and Sherlock scrutinized him carefully. 

_Jim was coming for Mycroft._

That was a statement. Not an admission of fear. Or reluctance. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You want to go with him." That was a statement, too. Even after...after Sherlock had sated every need he'd asked for. Sherlock's expression didn't change but for the small line forming between his brows. His wall were going back up as well. 

Mycroft's hold on Sherlock tightened and an uncharacteristic flicker of panic ran through his eyes. He'd immediately sensed Sherlock start to withdraw. "I don't know. I don't know what to do, for once." His admission came out in a harsh whisper. Mycroft hated uncertainty, lack of control, not having a plan for every contingency. "I don't know if I can kill him, and captivity would be much the same thing."

Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed. Jim had not only indulged Mycroft's deepest, most twisted desires; Mycroft had grown attached to the criminal. 

Sherlock wasn't sure how that made him feel. Logistically that posed a significant conundrum. Jim would not stop until he had what he wanted. What he wanted used to be Sherlock, in fact. Now it was Mycroft, and Mycroft...was feeling the pull. So was Sherlock. He felt a dull tug at his insides and it was very unpleasant. He'd _just_ opened up to his brother. Only to have him turning away again. "Would you really..." Sherlock pressed his lips together. He didn't want to say it. It made him sound weak. "Can he really give you what I can't?"

"In a great many respects, no," Mycroft sighed. "The difficulty lies in what I've done. What he had me do, the boundaries that were crossed. I'm... growing increasingly certain that I won't be able to completely stop, even if I try to slowly wean away from it and substitute other things, and he has a great deal of evidence. If we bring him to trial and cage him, there's nothing to stop him from causing me to get investigated and caged as well. I... can't bear the thought of killing him, which means we're left with a constant war of attrition, presuming he doesn't air the evidence he has to try to flush me out. Even if I somehow managed to keep him at bay, I'm going to have... needs. I'm not so egotistical to presume that I'll be able to avoid detection forever, and my work constantly puts me under the microscope."

Mycroft paused and drew a deep breath. "...I don't want to lose you again, either. Not after this."

Sherlock frowned. His grip on Mycroft had tightened without realizing it. It didn't loosen, even after the awareness. "I don't want to lose you either," he admitted with some difficulty. But even he was beginning to see that if Mycroft didn't change his mind, there were very few options open to them. Sherlock could _do_ plenty. They could fight Moriarty. He'd been ready for it, and the thrill of the chase and the game still called to him. But Mycroft's desires were getting in the way of things.  
Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft's eyes went distant and shuttered for a moment before he forced himself back. However much he didn't want to, this was something that would have to be confronted, and Sherlock deserved more than a living shell to talk to. "I don't want to kill him. I don't want to drag you into danger, either, and if I try to go back to how I was living before while dealing with... everything, chances are that I'll get caught. If it's a more mundane catching, you'll be arrested for aiding and abetting, most likely, for not turning me in. If I get traced in an unusual way, I'll just get us both assassinated."

"You're not giving me very many options," Sherlock didn't sound pleased. He sat up. "In fact, it sounds as though you've left only one open." Going back to Moriarty. 

Sherlock frowned down at Mycroft. It would have seemed like a sudden conclusion to anyone else, but Mycroft's mind was quick, and so was Sherlock's. 

"Could you do it?" Sherlock asked, pushing any semblance of sentimental reaction aside. 

"I don't know if that is an option, either," Mycroft sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance; the gesture was very reminiscent of his adult self, and very unlike a boy of his physical age. "Moriarty was very domineering when I was with him before. It didn't matter how far into recovery I was, or how clever I was. He was in control, and we were not equals. He was perfectly capable and willing of inflicting his will upon me regardless of whether he'd secured my consent. It might be a better cage than what the government might offer, but it's a cage nonetheless. Not something I would want to choose."

Sherlock's frown deepened and there came into his features a hardness that was not there before. It was not directed at Mycroft. "Then don't play his game." Sherlock's words came too harshly. "Your own sentiment is holding you back and you had a tendency to bend when the storm hits. Don't argue. You do. Even if it was 'for my sake' growing up with one rebellious child in the family. You've gotten used to it." Sherlock leaned down with a little of the usual reckless glint in his eye. " _Rebel_ , Mycroft." 

Mycroft's spine stiffened with indignation and anger. He doubted Sherlock had a firm grasp of precisely _why_ he'd bent, or how close he'd been to breaking some times. And then there was the matter of why he'd had to in the first place; it had been Sherlock who'd given him away and brought him under scrutiny the first time. "So your advice is to, what? Lure him into a trap and kill him, regardless of foolish sentiment, before he has a chance to air whatever evidence he holds?"

Sherlock's shoulders squared. He looked ready for a fight. "That would have been exactly what you'd have done before all this. Or not." Sherlock cocked his head to the side in sudden thought. "For some reason you let him go when he was still interested in me. After torturing him, mind you. Why then? Did you want to see if he would find me? Easy to be less sentimental when -- " Sherlock was cut off by a buzzer - the call button attached to the intercom outside the panic room door 

"Sherlock! Mycroft! Are you in there?" John’s voice sounded panicked when it came through the small intercom speaker. 

Mycroft's gaze shifted to the door. A moment later the color drained from his face as he realized precisely how careless they had been. Caught up in the heat of the moment, they'd abandoned the kitchen for the panic room, leaving behind drops of blood... and both of their shirts. Mycroft was having trouble recalling if he'd even put all of the items back that he'd been using. One of the knives was in the room, but it wasn't impossible that he'd forgotten the other on the counter. Or the floor.

"...I've a bathroom with a small shower attached to this room, but that's not going to solve our problem," he whispered. Even with clean skin, the scent of sex was going to cling to their clothes. 

"Right. Fuck." The fight was gone from Sherlock. Only tightly controlled panic was left in its wake. "Go turn it on, I'll get rid of John." With a nod, Sherlock was off the bed, argument forgotten. 

" _Sherlock!_ " The door handle rattled.  
"John," Sherlock pushed the intercom button and spoke into the reciever, not wanting his flatmate to get any ideas about calling Lestrade for help or attempting to leave the house. "I'm fine. Mycroft is fine. We had a -ah, mishap with sleepwalking last night. I'll be just a minute." 

"Sherlock, what? There's blood all over the floor out here. And the knives -- " 

"Yes John. I'm sure the floor will be fine." Sherlock whirled and hurried to join Mycroft. 

Mycroft had switched the shower on and was already under the spray. The fixture was purely utilitarian - no walls, just a shower head affixed to the tiled room and a drain in the floor. A small toilet and sink were tucked into the opposite corner of the room. The boy turned as soon as the small door to the bathroom opened.

Mycroft was much smaller than Sherlock now, but looked even more so when wet. "...did you get rid of him? What did you tell him?"

"Sleepwalking. And not to mind the floor." Sherlock sighed before he pushed off the door. "He knows we're fine and that'll be enough for him, for now." 

Sherlock, striding closer, was noticeably calmer than before. He stopped just short of Mycroft and looked at once like he both wanted to touch the boy and yet was not sure that he was welcome to any longer. The spray didn't touch him. Sherlock's curls had exploded overnight and had only gotten worse. He still had the bleary look about him of the unwashed. And yet, all together, he still towered over Mycroft. 

Mycroft hesitated, more from Sherlock's distance than anything else. Once crossed, taboos were difficult to reinstate, and Mycroft had no real wish to reject his brother and push him away again. He moved just enough to reach out and grab Sherlock's hands with both of his own. "Come here." They weren't out of danger yet, but Mycroft didn't intend to avoid Sherlock's touch simply because their situation was complicated or they'd almost been caught.

Still might be caught. John wasn't completely daft, after all.

Sherlock went easily, pulled under the spray until his hair was matted to his eyes and his face was all screwed up, looking more like a wet dog and unable to do anything about it until Mycroft let his hands go. He shook out his head and got one free, swiping his bangs back from his forehead and running the spray over himself for a moment. When he looked back down at Mycroft, his gaze was softer, thankful not to be rejected. After a moment's indecision, he pulled Mycroft closer, getting him in as much of the spray with Sherlock as they could manage, and looked for the soap. 

"If we can get out quickly and move him away from the room, he won't smell a thing. However, there is the small matter of clothing, and our cuts, specifically." Sherlock lathered up the bar and started at the base of Mycroft's neck. He began to work his way down as he thought. "Something close to the truth. More believable. You were sleepwalking, a nightmare about Moriarty. I caught you and we fought, you mistaking me for your dream. You woke up. We talked. We decided it would be more prudent to spend the night in safety down here, while I would be able to watch if it happened again." 

Mycroft nodded, then grimaced. "Your doctor will want to look us over if we say we've been fighting, particularly with knives. Our cuts are a bit too careful, and there are the bite marks besides." His eyes shut and he rested his forehead against Sherlock's skin. Even with the water, he could smell him. "If we slept in our clothes, that would explain some of the pheromonal scent clinging to them. We did, however, remove them before we began. Which means they lack the tears and stains of a spontaneous knife fight."

"We'll have to be quick about it. Hide the bite marks as much as possible and change. John won't be looking us over. I don't care how stubborn he can be. _I can be worse._ " Sherlock huffed. "I'll distract him first while you get away. If he sees anything, it would be more likely for you to have bitten me in a scuffle than vice versa." Sherlock's hands moved as he spoke like they were part of the meditation, sluicing water down Mycroft's back to wash away the suds. "We'll have to hope he'll smell the soap over...any other lingering aromas."

"We'll have to hope," Mycroft agreed with a sigh. The situation wasn't helping to keep him focused; he remembered far too many shared showers with a different ending. The reminder made him ache just a little more. "I suppose we should count it lucky that you chose your assistant based on loyalty, durability, and marksmanship, rather than observational prowess. We may have hope of getting out of this undetected."

Sherlock let out a sigh. "True, John can be surprisingly astute in some areas, and not in others." Sherlock fully intended to ignore the oddities of their behavior enough so that John would be forced to let it go, no matter his suspicions. "It doesn't help that I may have warned him about your childhood proclivity for sadism, and...that he should perhaps tread carefully." Sherlock sniffed with a note of guilt.

"...I had wondered about that. After you took him aside that once time, he looked at me differently. Like he was afraid, but at odds with the idea of being afraid of a child." Mycroft knew Sherlock had come to terms with this reality, as he wouldn't have offered himself otherwise, but he couldn't help but wonder if it had played a part in their estrangement. Aside from the obvious - the betrayal he'd felt when Sherlock had told their parents and landed him in a nightmare. "We're going to have to be careful."

"Difficult while locked in one house together," Sherlock confirmed. "...but possibly manageable. John has proven to be understanding when the needs of others are concerned, even if he doesn't have full disclosure." Sherlock just knew that he'd be questioned the moment Mycroft was out of earshot. That was alright. It wasn't like he hadn't lied to John before. Even if he preferred not to. 

Sherlock's hands slid through Mycroft's hair with the warm water, taking a moment to enjoy a closeness he had never been used to. Except, coincidentally, with Mycroft, but long ago when they were both children. Sherlock was glad Mycroft had not asked to call the whole thing off. 

The look the boy gave Sherlock in return was something he couldn't quite read. It wasn't the cold detachment he was used to from Mycroft, or the fond nurturing looks he used to give him when they were both younger. Neither was it lust, exactly. Affection for Sherlock had been transformed into a different category than Mycroft was used to regarding him with, and the boy was reassessing what to do. Reassessing _them_. "We'll need to talk more, later. I hope you're not... regretting being pulled into this with me."

"No," Sherlock said simply, then thought more on the matter. "I'm not." Moriarty was Sherlock's problem first, if Sherlock even had considered him a 'problem' at the time. And that was only something that had recently begun to fester at the back of his mind, now that he'd gotten Mycroft back safe and sound. Jim's attentions had left Sherlock in favor of Mycroft. The game was no longer his. And though it was petty, Sherlock couldn't help but feel the sting. 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He'd recognized that brief flash of expression across his brother's face. He'd seen it countless times before, whenever he'd garnered more attention and praise, or been allowed something that Sherlock had not. Sherlock was older now and less prone to outbursts, but the emotions were still there. He covered Sherlock's hands with his own. "...help me. We'll deal with him together. Whatever is decided."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. After a moment's more thought to Moriarty and the strange crossing of lines and relationships he'd thrown them all into, Sherlock moved to shake his hair out and turn off the tap.  
Their little room was steaming now and overheated, but it felt kind of nice. Sherlock managed to find some plush towels in the only cabinet available, took one for himself, and handed one to his brother.  
"Best put ourselves back together then. I'll distract John while you find us some new clothes and cover up those bitemarks."

Mycroft nodded. They dried as quickly as they could manage before heading back to the main portion of the panic room. Clothes were pulled on in silence. Each of them was preparing for the possibilities of what might come, and how to respond. When they were dressed, they adjusted each other's clothing, doing their best to ensure bruises, bites, and cuts were all covered as best as they could manage.  
"...ready?" Mycroft's hands paused on the lock that would open the door.

"Ready." Sherlock stood straight-backed and squared at their exit. If he'd had his shirt, he would most surely have been straightening it one last time, just for fortitude. John was out there, likely having found somewhere comfortable to wait. The kitchen or the living room, then. More likely the kitchen since it was in close proximity. Sherlock nodded once to Mycroft, who disarmed the lock. The door buzzed and Sherlock moved forward, intent on being the first one out. 

Sherlock was right; John had been waiting on the far side of the kitchen, sitting on one of the stools and picking at a slice of bread when he looked up. John's eyebrows rose at the sight of his friend, shirtless and covered in small nicks and cuts. Sherlock strode forward quickly, feeling Mycroft close behind him. He had to fill up John's attention. "John." 

"Whoa, what happened?" John was sliding off the chair and looking more than a little worried. 

Mycroft hung close to Sherlock as they moved forward, head tilted down, like a child who'd misbehaved and feared punishment. The moment Sherlock stepped around the center island and blocked John's path, he bolted and ran up the stairs. He'd have a few minutes at least while Sherlock distracted the doctor, and his behavior could be explained away by any number of things - post traumatic stress, lingering pieces of childish thoughts and actions, shame over loss of control. If they played this correctly and John missed reading the signs, he'd never need to know what had transpired between the two brothers.


End file.
